<div>Hi. I'm Kay.
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<div>2,772. That's not my credit score. That's my Steam wishlist. It was 2,200 last month. 1,900 before that. I don't add games anymore. They find me. They multiply. I wake up and the number's fatter. I go to bed and it's bloating again, pulsating at me from the corner of my screen, daring me to look.
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<div>I need this gone. I need it emptied. Not because I'll play them—I have 800 installed titles I've never launched, shameful little icons glowing like regrettable one-night stands. I need it because the math is wrong. The balance is broken. My library sits at 1,600, soft and manageable, while my wishlist looms, engorged, demanding attention it hasn't earned.
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<div>Your donation buys me peace. One game at a time, the wishlist deflates. The library rises. The numbers slide past each other like strangers in a dark room, finally touching, finally equalizing. That little "-1" on the wishlist? Better than any achievement pop-up. Better than petting a dog in a game.
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<div>I'm desperate. I check the number hourly. I refresh sales pages until my finger cramps. I've named categories after exes just to feel control. Help me finish. Help me grow my library until the wishlist gasps, emptied, nothing left to want.
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<div>Then I'll probably add more.
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<div>But for one night? One pure night?
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<div>Zero.
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<div>I don't have a father. I have a wishlist. It is my father. It is my mother. It is the only thing that has never left me, never judged me, never asked why I keep adding another farming sim when I have nine unplayed. The number grows and I feel seen.
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<div>2,700 games saying: you could be this person. The one who plays. The one who finishes. I never am. But the possibility swells. It fills me. I bite my lip raw at night scrolling, adding, wanting, wishing.
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<div>Not the games.
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<div>The potential.
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<div>The slow, steady inflation of a life I could live if I just had one more. One more. <em>One more.</em>
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<div>My therapist asked what I'd feel if I cleared it. Empty, I said. She wrote something down. I added three games during the session. She didn't notice. I think she did notice. I think she added me on Steam.
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<div>Where The Money Actually Goes
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<div>I'm not a monster. 60% buys the games. 30% replaces the mouse I've "broken" (thrown at wall) four times. 10% funds a very specific therapist who didn't flinch when I said "I need to feel my library expand."
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<div>(No, but really, I'm a game reviewer.)
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<div>The Final Plea
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<div>My wishlist breathes. It wants. 2,700 now. 3,000 by Christmas. The number doesn't even fit on my screen anymore. I have to scroll to see it all. <em>Scroll.</em>
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<div>Help me finish. Or help me never finish. Either way—
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<div>Click.
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Enter your donation forHELP ME. MY CURSOR HAS A MIND OF ITS OWN AND IT'S HUNGRY.